


Angels in the Architecture (Devil in the Details)

by Tea_and_Sympathy



Series: Northern Sky [5]
Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types, History Boys - Bennett
Genre: But not helping me sleep, Hope you enjoy, I finally managed to write a tiny bit of sex, I think I'm a hopeless romantic, It's quite swoony, M/M, Not Like That, Not Me!, Okay a bit like that, This thing is keeping me sane, Two two headers, Up till all hours, What happened on Wednesday, but don't get your hopes up, stay safe lovelies, who knew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:21:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23443120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea_and_Sympathy/pseuds/Tea_and_Sympathy
Summary: In which Scripps and Posner work out how friends become lovers and Dakin and Irwin work out how lovers become friends.Tom’s laugh is half snorted beer and coughing. Gratified his question is immediately understood; gratified by the response, he replies, “That, my love, is the right answer”.The endearment spins, glittering in the air: a spoken aloud thought born of fatigue and unaccustomed domesticity. Best ignored then. But Stu catches it before it can hit the ground - its shape to be turned over and over, its edges and outlines traced and retraced.
Relationships: David Posner/Donald Scripps, Stuart Dakin/Tom Irwin
Series: Northern Sky [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642348
Comments: 18
Kudos: 20





	Angels in the Architecture (Devil in the Details)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking about the nature of these relationships and noticing they have some similar and mirroring characteristics. everything_that_is_the_case put the idea in my head that it's about shame. It turns out (in my head anyway) that Dakin and Posner have more in common than they think - not much capacity for shame and an inability to suffer fools and hypocrites. Scripps and Irwin both need that in their lives. Oddly, I wrote the second half first and then realised it needed a counter point. Scripps and Posner being friends who are working out how also to be lovers and Dakin and Irwin being lovers who are working out how also to be friends. If it speaks to you, please let me know - I too am quite needy :)

**Wednesday Morning**

When Scripps gets back from running errands for his mum, he finds Pos’ bike leaning against the front bay. He stops by the gate – heart in his mouth. By his calculations, he’s been gone half an hour - thirty minutes for his mother to wheedle almost anything out of him, or, as his rational self argues, half an hour in which his mum has made a cup of tea and had a banal chat with a young man she’s known since he was a child. A young man she likes and whose company she enjoys. One of those is true and there’s only one way to find out. He weighs his desire to see Pos against his unnamable fear and goes up the path.

As he turns the key in the lock, he hears his mum call, “We’re in the kitchen, love – David’s here”. And there is Pos, sitting at the table drinking tea while his mum tidies. Scripps stands in the kitchen doorway like a rabbit in headlights. He hears himself say, “David” and the echo of David’s voice on the phone saying,

_“Hello, Scrippsy – I know you can’t really talk but I can’t stop thinking about you, about today, about how good it felt and...”_

Posner smiles his lovely smile and replies, “Hello, Scrippsy”.

Angela smiles too and asks him if he’s got her few groceries and if he remembered his Nan’s tin of Barley Sugars. He comes to, walks across the room and hands over the shopping bag. “Yeah, um, I think I got everything. Nan’s sweets are in there.”

He hasn’t taken his eyes off David and his mum gives him a puzzled look. “Thanks, love”, she says, “David and I have been having a chat. He’s been telling me he might try to change to English. He says you think it’s a good idea”.

Okay, that’s the way the conversation’s going - he manages a smile, “I do, yes. It’s worth a try anyway. I think you’d be happier, wouldn’t you Pos?”

“I think so, yes. You’ll help me sort it out, won’t you?”

“Of course”, he replies, as nonchalantly as he can manage. But he’s struggling to reconcile this conversation with the Posner he was kissing in this room the day before yesterday. He can see him sitting on the worktop, smiling, drawing him in, greedily responding to his touch and his kisses. He can hear him on the phone saying,

_“Scrippsy, please: I wish I was with you; I want to feel close to you; I want to know I’m making you feel good, even if I can’t be there. Promise”._

And so, he’d promised, and broken all his promises to himself and to God and he can’t bring himself to care about any of it because it felt so good. It felt reverent. Stu would call it, ‘just a wank’ but it wasn’t ‘just’ anything – not simply or merely, but purely. Purely David. And David looks like butter wouldn’t melt - he looks like an angel, damn him!

Angela turns her back to load the washing machine and, as Scripps walks past, Pos grabs his hand and quickly kisses it. Dazzled by his audacity, Scripps sits down at the table facing him with his back to his mother - his heart pounding as he twines Pos’ hand under the table. He mouths, “I want to kiss you”, his face a picture of yearning, and Pos can’t contain his giggles.

Angela turns round asking, “What are you two giggling like school girls about now? It’s rude to whisper behind people’s backs, you know”. She watches the flush rise up the back of her son’s neck and briefly catches David’s luminous eye. “Come on, you two, get out from under my feet; I want to clean this floor and I’ve got to go out soon.”

Scripps scrapes back his chair – he’s not going to wait to be asked twice. He suggests Pos comes to his room to go through some sheet music. It’s the lamest of excuses - the piano being littered with the stuff - but it will have to do. As they leave the kitchen, Angela switches the radio on and Posner asks if she normally has it that loud. Scripps answers that, no, she doesn’t – nor is she fond of jangly pop music - she usually tunes it away from where his sister leaves the dial. Angela prefers something less intrusive.

In his bedroom, Scripps pushes the door shut with his foot and reaches for Pos with both hands. The relief of being able to kiss is overwhelming and makes them clumsy - teeth clashing, rhythm off. They give up and lean against the door, Scripps holds Pos’ head against his chest while they let their breathing slow and calm. Eventually, he lifts Pos’ face towards him, closes his eyes with a kiss on each lid and gently, sweetly, returns to his mouth - where everything makes sense again.

Breaking apart with a sigh, Scripps asks, “Oh, Pos, what are we going to do?”

Pos shakes his head, “Do we have to _do_ anything? Can’t we just be? I don’t want to think any further ahead than now”.

“Okay, but I can’t help wishing we’d worked this out before...before we came home.”

“When we had world enough, and time?”

Scripps can’t resist an eye roll, “Trust you – which one of us is the coy mistress in that set up?”

Pos, sharp as a tack, replies with a smirk and raised eyebrow, “You, obviously - _And you should, if you please, refuse till the conversion of the Jews._ ” And he moves away to gaze out of Scripps’ bedroom window.

“Smart arse! But, yes. World enough. Time enough. And privacy enough”.

Pos glances back over his shoulder at him, “But we’re not in a hurry, are we? Your mum’s alright though... um... I think she knows, anyway.”

Scripps joins him to lean on the wide window sill. The next-door neighbour walks a push mower up and down his lawn with admirable precision – the smell of cut grass wafts in at the open window. “Yeah, me too. Shit. How does she do that? Did she say something?”

“No, not exactly. She said she was glad we were still friends and she sort of made friends sound like a euphemism, or a question anyway. It was bait, I think... but I didn’t bite. She thinks I'm a good influence on you.”

“Little does she know”.

Pos leans round and pokes his finger accusingly into Scripps’ chest, “Maybe she does know and she thinks it’s a good thing – have you thought of that? She’s not too keen on all your God bothering. Anyway, there was something about the way she looked at me just now.”

“Good or bad?”

“Sad. Worried. Wistful.”

“You got all that from a glance at my mum.”

Pos laughs, “I’m very observant. And that radio’s really loud – what _does_ she think we’re going to do? She loves you though.”

“She’s quite keen on you too”, he laughs, “So that helps”.

The neighbour makes a perfect turn to head back towards the house and Scripps leads Pos away from the window to sit with him on the edge of his bed. Pos, takes his hand and holds it in his lap, “You called me David earlier, when you came home”.

“Oh… so I did… probably because my mum does and she was there. Sorry”.

“No. I like it. It feels grown up - private. You can call me David - sometimes anyway. All the others call me Pos. David can be yours”.

Scripps leans in to kiss his neck and whispers, “I would like David to be mine”.

They both smile at the double entendre. Pos gives a little moan and a breathy reply, “David’s yours – all yours, only yours. Apart from our mums, obviously”.

“Okay. Yeah, I like it too. Don’t call me Donald though”.

“Don?”

“Maybe. Sometimes. You’re the only person who calls me Scrippsy”.

“Do you like it or is it childish?”

“It is childish, but I like it anyway. It makes my heart flip. Always has”.

“Always?”

“Yeah... now I come to think of it. I realise I haven’t been paying enough attention to... anything really. It’s like I’m awake suddenly. You are so naughty though”.

“Me?”

“Don’t come the innocent, David Posner. The other night - that was… unexpected... and awkward... and...”

“...Didn’t you like it?”

“It’s not a question of liking it – of course I liked it”.

“Well then, there isn’t a problem, is there? Tell me what you liked”.

“No!”

“Spoil sport!” David laughs and walks his fingers up Scripps’ arm, past his tan line, under his sleeve, up to his shoulder. “Take this off, Scrippsy, I want to feel your skin. I love your skin”.

Scripps finds this idolatry uncomfortable; he doesn’t feel deserving. “I’m like a milk bottle”.

“You’re like marble. And you have a mole”. He moves his hand to Scripps’ lower back and circles his thumb there... “just here”.

“How do you know? Have you mapped all my imperfections?”

“It’s not an imperfection, It’s a beauty spot. Come on...” As Scripps seems disinclined to do it himself, David stands, pulls the T shirt up and over his head and does the same with his own.

Scripps panics, “Pos, my mum’s downstairs!”

David nudges Scripps legs apart with his knees and stands between them. He runs his hands appreciatively over his shoulders, threads his hands through his hair and pulls him close, “Don’t worry, she really doesn’t want to know and she said she was going out. I know about your beautiful skin because I’ve spent a great deal of time watching. Watching all of you. You shouldn’t have underestimated me”.

Scripps holds on to David’s hips for dear life, his thumbs through his belt loops, and looks up at him. The position does nothing to dispel his notion of himself as supplicant to an otherworldly being. “I’ve never underestimated you, David. But I thought you only had eyes for Stu”.

“Well, you thought wrong. Stu was just obvious – what everyone expected - what he expected. But you always seemed so pure and untouchable – so I didn’t touch”.

“There’s nothing pure about Stu”.

“No. Sometimes, when you put your arms round me when we were doing a skit for Hector, I’d try and breathe you in – take a great big gulp of you, I’m surprised you didn’t notice”.

“I did; I pretended it was part of the game. But, the other night, I was standing down there...”

“...Hiding in plain sight. I know – that was the fun of it”.

Scripps shakes his head and gives him an exasperated smile, “You… little...”

“...I’m good at it though, aren’t I?”

“Yes. Yes, you are. But I thought you weren’t ready for… all this...”

“… I didn’t know it could be you, Scrippsy”.

“I have no idea what I’m doing, you know that don’t you? I’m not Stu”.

David removes a hand from Scripps’ hair and touches his cheek with unbearable tenderness, “Don, I don’t need you to be Stu; I don’t want you to be him. I want _you_. We can work it out together, take as long as we need – I'd like that, wouldn’t you?”

Scripps feels tears begin to prickle and buries his head in David’s warm belly. He thinks, “Not now, not now” and swallows it back. David says nothing, but strokes his hair and doesn’t push him to answer. After a while, he tips Scripps head up with a finger under his chin and asks, “Anyway, did you do as you were told?”

Scripps laughs and kisses his navel – the one he inexplicably thinks inferior to Dakin’s, “I promised I would, didn’t I?” Almost without thinking, he finds himself unbuckling David’s belt and unthreading it back through all the loops. He discards it with their T-shirts.

David’s smile is nothing short of triumphant, “Oh, I’m so glad. You wouldn’t want me to think you were the kind of boy who breaks his promises, would you?”

“You cheeky fuck; I swear I’m going to…”

“…What? What are you going to do about it?”

Scripps pulls him down on the bed and pins him there while David shrieks with laughter – Scripps kisses him quiet. The radio stops suddenly and they hear the front door close – not quite a slam but louder than strictly necessary. When the dust settles, they pick up where they left off.

**Wednesday Night**

On the Tube, Tom stares over the head of the woman opposite into the infinite regress of his own reflection. The lighting doesn’t help but, God, he looks exhausted. He is exhausted. But he likes this place: likes the anonymity of it; feels it won’t ask him stupid questions or manage more than a disaffected shrug at the things he most wants to hide. It’s a place that might just let him be; let him belong.

Once he’s on the Sheffield train, heading north in the twilight - the sky expanding as they leave the city behind - he suddenly needs desperately to be home. Not Sheffield - home. Honestly? Wherever Stuart is. He thinks about the key he gave him and worries it was too much – enough to scare him off. He worries he’ll use it; he worries he won’t.

He looks down at his hands and sees Stuart on his knees guiding them into his hair - asking him to tell him what to do; to show him what he wants. He leans his head against the cool, damp window, closes his eyes, gives in to waves of sleep and the images swirling round his head: Stuart begging, Stuart demanding, Stuart laughing at discovering they share the same fantasy – both wishing one of them had been brave enough to lock the storeroom door and to hell with metaphor. They’ve both imagined being the one who acts and the one who reacts - twin aspects of power and control - depending on today’s mood and craving. It has filled Tom with shame at every replay and has filled Stuart with nothing of the kind. But Stuart’s laughter gives him permission to enjoy it - to be shameless. He loves him for that.

As an echo, he feels Stuart’s hands in his own hair and his scalp tingles: gentle, caressing, urgent, exquisitely painful. He summons the look Stuart’s face has in the moments before he comes – intense concentration and the sweet, open-mouthed abandonment of release. He looks beautiful and debauched - not essentially different to his imaginings but, oh, the reality of the reality. Knowing the pictures he conjures now are memories, not fantasies, he drifts in and out of a doze. His tongue moves silently against his teeth and his lips faintly murmur around “fuck…” and “Yes… please…” and… “oh, Christ, yes...”. When an involuntarily moan escapes him, he has to will his eyes open and bite his lip to make it stop. Luckily, his only travelling companions are the bag on the seat next to him and the walking stick he’s knocked clattering to the floor. It’s a long journey home.

As he puts his key in the lock, he allows himself a moment of duality: rehearsing the disappointment of Stuart not being there and the vague relief an empty flat might bring.

And there he is, leaning in the living room doorway with his hands in his pockets looking… surprisingly, a little bashful.

*******

Stuart smiles helplessly. He’s tried to think of something clever or funny or charming to say, but he’s left with simply, “Hello”.

Tom looks taken aback, “Hello. I wasn’t expecting you”.

“Oh, sorry – do you want me to go? It’s late, you’re tired – I'll go”.

“No. I said I wasn’t expecting you, not …” He sighs, “I was hoping you’d be here, but I didn’t think you would be. I thought you’d have something better to do”.

Stuart steps quickly into Tom’s space, removes the bag and stick he appears unable to put down and kisses him softly. In the limbo of the waiting hours and the endless decisions and revisions, he had resolved to greet him with an “I love you”. He’d settled on saying it quickly, with a kiss, in the hopes of it being taken as a given - something already said in the tumult of everything that’s been said. Said – and, perhaps, forgotten. But relief at his being welcome produces one of his moments of disarming, unpremeditated honesty - the kind that leaves him vulnerable in a way a casually tossed, I love you, simply wouldn’t.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be - no one else I’d rather be with”.

Tom keeps his eyes shut, sways slightly on his feet - unsteadied by the force of that admission. “Oh...oh...okay. Stay then – please – I’d like that. I’m knackered though. I probably won’t be very good company”.

Stuart puts his arms round him – feels him take and release a deep breath. “I don’t need you to perform, you know; I just want to be with you”.

“That’s nice...I mean, good to know. What are you doing anyway?”

“Meant to be reading something improving, actually watching rubbish telly, with a beer. Want one?”

“Yeah, in a minute. I might shower – I feel very...British Rail... What are you smiling at?”

Stu keeps smiling and saying nothing, surprised he has to spell it out, but it’s clear Tom’s not on top form. “We could kill two birds with one stone”.

“What?”

“The shower”.

Tom stares – it takes a while for the penny to drop. “Oh. Oh, yes... that does sound... appealing. Give me five minutes – come and join me?”

“Absolutely”.

It’s a long five minutes for Stuart. Having obviated the need for performance, he realises he’s set himself up for one.

So many things could go wrong. Everything goes wrong. And nothing is wrong.

There isn’t room for two grown men in an over-the-bathtub shower, the shower’s not powerful enough to keep them both warm and the plastic curtain sucks in and sticks to everything it can. Every surface is hard, cold, and unyielding - except the body he’s clinging to; the soft, needy, exhausted body of a man who, unaccountably, wants to wash his hair. There is sex – of sorts - clumsy and badly timed, not really working for either of them. But there’s also laughing and kissing and gasping at accidently swallowing water and getting shampoo in eyes. And it’s all fine – no one’s keeping score.

But it’s the hair washing Stuart will remember of it and how, when it was dry, Tom had run his fingers through it, delighting in the soft, stripped-of-artifice result: a level of nakedness reserved only for him – washing out the hair products being the last thing Stuart Dakin does.

When Tom gets back to the living room, Stu’s already sitting on a chair cushion, leaning against the sofa, watching telly. “You could sit on the chair you know”.

“They’re instruments of torture those things – you're not going to take them to London with you, are you?”

“I’m taking as little of this place with me as I can”.

Stuart imagines himself part of the trappings to be sloughed off with a new life and changes the subject, “I made myself some pasta earlier – there's some left, if you want it. Is that okay – that I cooked something?”

“Of course. Yes, I will have some of your cold, left-over pasta – thank you very much. It’s got to be better than a British Rail sandwich, after all”.

“Heat it up and bung some cheese on it – it'll be lovely. Beer’s in the fridge”.

Tom takes himself off to the kitchen and returns, as instructed, with warmed-up, cheesy pasta, and a beer. He sits behind Stuart on the sofa. “Stuart? You’ve cooked, there’s beer in my fridge and, I notice, a new toothbrush in my bathroom - have you moved in?”

“Sorry. Is that okay? I'll go whenever you want me to”.

“It’s fine. I’m teasing. I like having you here. Have you heard from your mum?”

“Nope. I gave Scripps your number in case she calls there – so she can find me – he'll say I’m staying with a friend. She’ll probably wonder at a friend who isn’t Scripps, but still. Sorry, I shouldn’t have just given your number out”.

“Stuart! Stop being so apologetic. It’s fine. It’s more than fine. I like it. I...” He takes a swig of beer that covers the unfinished thought.

Stuart turns round to look at him over his shoulder, “What?”

“Nothing. What are you watching anyway?"

“The Professionals”.

“Oh, nice. Man cannot live by high culture alone... Bodie or Doyle?”

Without missing a beat, Stu replies, “I wouldn’t kick either of them out of bed”.

Tom’s laugh is half snorted beer and coughing. Gratified his question is immediately understood; gratified by the response, he replies, “That, my love, is the right answer”.

The endearment spins, glittering in the air: a spoken aloud thought born of fatigue and unaccustomed domesticity. Best ignored then. But Stu catches it before it can hit the ground - its shape to be turned over and over, its edges and outlines traced and retraced.

They watch the end of the programme in companionable silence, Stuart leaning against Tom - the warmth of him seeping into Tom’s aching knee. When it’s over, Tom gets up to take his bowl back to the kitchen and returns with a video tape that he tosses into Stuart’s lap, “Talking of two birds, one stone, how about some improving telly?”

“What is it?”

“Me. I thought I was mostly researching and producing the material but they want me to try some presenting. The director thinks I have something that works on camera – apparently. It's some test pieces – to see how it goes. I thought it might amuse you"

Stuart grins at him, “Is he gay? I bet he fancies you”.

“Stuart, that’s crass – do you think it’s possible it’s on my own merits?”

“Yes, sorry – of course it is”.

And then, with exasperation, “Oh, alright – yes, he is, and yes, I think he does. But it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s wrong, does it?”

The admission gives Stuart an unfamiliar pang. “No, it doesn’t, sorry - must brush up on my logical fallacies. Let’s have a look then”.

Stu scrambles about on the floor to put the tape in and Tom lies back on the sofa, taking up the full length of it. Stuart sits back on his cushion on the floor, leaning where Tom can rub the back of his neck and shoulders and play with his mercifully unsullied hair. Tom’s seen the tape a few times, so he’s happy to watch Stuart watching it. Watching him is something he’s had a great deal of practice in and doesn’t think he’ll ever have enough of. A warm, glow of half sleep creeps over him and the edges of the scene begin to blur. He is perfectly content.

On the screen, Tom is all sardonic eyebrows and knowing looks to camera - Stu barely notices what he’s saying. They’ve dressed him in a collarless, dark blue shirt, trousers that fit properly and someone has even taken charge of his hair. “Good God – he's right though – yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look, he thinks too much; such men are dangerous...” He turns around and kisses him, Tom sleepily parting his lips to allow Stuart’s tongue a gentle intrusion, but barely having the energy to respond… “and very sexy with it”.

Tom murmurs something drowsily about Stuart missing the fucking point and Shakespeare not needing paraphrasing.

“You only need a decent pair of glasses and you’re going to be every thinking woman’s crumpet - and some thinking men too, for that matter. And so very unobtainable. That is definitely going to be history as entertainment”.

“Fuck’s sake, Stu. Anyway, who says I’m unobtainable? I could be obtainable”. He’s laughing quietly, but his voice is becoming ever more unfocussed.

A young woman runs on to fiddle with his microphone – obviously trying to avoid having her face on camera. She has to rearrange the mic lead under his shirt and it’s uncomfortable for both of them. In an attempt, no doubt, to reassure her, Tom gives her a smile that makes her visibly more flustered - she rushes off-screen as quickly as possible. Stuart hoots with laughter.

“Tom! That poor girl. What were you thinking? That looks like something I would do – only, at least I’d know what I was doing".

There’s no response. “Tom? Tom... are you asleep?”

Stuart looks at him sleeping in the same place he was himself crashed out a few days ago – home and safe. He looks drained and Stuart wonders how hard he had to work to maintain Irwin over those two days: a performance for strangers after the intimate maelstrom of their reunion. And, on the television, he’s still presenting in full-colour - while Tom sleeps a sepia sleep.

He switches it off saying, “Wait there, Sir” and turns back to his sleeping lover. He strokes his still damp hair and removes the glasses that have been knocked askew. Kissing his finally unruffled forehead, he whispers, “You don’t have to prove anything, you’re good enough – but I wouldn’t kick either of you out of bed”.

He takes it upon himself to lock up for the night. He thinks through what Tom might do before going to bed – tries to thinks himself into his skin. He double locks the door with his key – his _own_ key - and slips on the chain. He turns off the main hall light but remembers Tom likes to leave a small lamp lit there, so switches it on. In the kitchen, he checks everything’s turned off and washes up the few things Tom’s used, ready for the morning. He knows he’s playing house – Scripps would take the piss. Scripps would get it, but he’d still take the piss; he’d take the piss himself, if it were anyone else. But it feels right - natural - calming - right.

Returning to the living room, he considers fetching the blanket Tom put over him on Saturday. Would it be selfish to wake him? Yes, probably, but he kisses him awake anyway saying, “Hey, you, come to bed with me” and hands him his glasses. Tom smiles and acquiesces.

In the dark cocoon of Tom’s bed, Stuart feels something’s missing. He feels bad about the shower – like he’s taken too much without giving. He has a generous spirit, in spite of the numerous faults of which he’s becoming increasingly and painfully aware.

Tom’s almost asleep – flat on his back. Without discussion or preamble, Stu slides down the bed and takes him quickly into his mouth. He’s as soft and unguarded as a timid creature Stu wants to persuade to be trusting. Tom gives a gasp of surprise and a moan of pleasure but murmurs, “Stu, you don’t have to”.

Stuart’s only answer is to reach for his hand and thread their fingers together until Tom surrenders to it and brings his other hand to the top of Stu’s head. Stu loves the sensation of coaxing him to grow and harden in his mouth – a pleasure akin to persuading that small creature to eat from his hand. He starts impossibly slowly, gently building to steady strokes and a wet pressure that make Tom’s hips and hand rise and fall in an answering rhythm. It doesn’t take long – Tom coming with a deep, guttural sound and an, “Oh, God, Stu”. Stuart swallows steadily around him and stays there until he feels him begin to soften and retreat and the tension in his hands fade.

Stuart slides up the bed again and lays his head on Tom’s chest, listening to his slowing heartbeat. Tom says, simply, “thank you”, and then, “do you want me to…”

Stuart stops him, “No. No, I don’t need it, honestly – I enjoyed that – almost as much as you”. He laughs, “Go to sleep now. Tomorrow, I’m going to let you fuck me senseless, so you best get some rest”.

Tom laughs, kisses him and curls on his side – and out like a light.

Hours later, stirring to semi-consciousness, Stuart will kiss his I love you into the space between Tom’s shoulder blades – the sound resonating into both their chests. He won’t know if Tom’s awake or asleep, but he’ll roll the dice anyway. Tom will squeeze his hand and feel himself begin to grow angel’s wings.

**Author's Note:**

> The Poem is "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell. But you knew that. I have tried, really I have, to stick to one POV per scene. I have failed. Forgive me.


End file.
